Reformatory Girls Ch. 12

"Wow," she says. "That was nice Clare: very nice." She laughs a little, recovering herself.

Clare, too, breathes more freely: she felt almost as much relief when Miss Lucy came as Miss Lucy did herself. Oddly, she feels as though she herself has undergone something cathartic, a sort of partial orgasm by proxy - though that might just be the relief after all the strenuous work with her tongue.

"So, Clare," says Miss Lucy, perched triumphally above Clare. "You know how to use your tongue. I bet you're feeling thirsty after that."

"Yes," says Clare, who wants nothing now so much as a glass of water. "Please could I have some water?"

"We can do better than water," says Miss Lucy: and through the veil of her fringe Clare can see that trademark look, at once playful and malicious, return to Miss Lucy's eye.

"Water's fine," says Clare.

"Listen to you: still the innocent," says Miss Lucy. "You've just licked me off Clare: it would be ungrateful of me not to give you something in return."

Clare's heart starts to pound again: a sense of dread steals over her. Miss Lucy works her way back up the couch and once more squats over Clare's mouth.

"If you drink it all down like a good girl I won't pluck you next week," says Miss Lucy. "That's a promise, and I keep my word. But if you spill any, I shall have to get to work with the tweezers again."

You fiend: Clare isn't sure if she's spoken this aloud or just voiced in her head. She can't believe this is happening: she feels she has already plumbed the depths of every degradation Miss Lucy can subject her too. But she cannot fight against it: Miss Lucy has reached behind her and scratched at the spot where Clare's tiny pubic hair was plucked from her vulva: it is still raw and sore: and feeling she has no will left of her own, she opens her mouth obediently.

When the jet of Miss Lucy's piss first hits her throat Clare wants to gag: she was thirsty before, but this is a fluid that does not quench thirst, it is hot and pungent, and utterly unnatural. She wants to spit it out, to eject it by whatever reflexes are available to her: but Miss Lucy's cunt is clamped to her mouth, her mouth is filling up, there is no option but to swallow it.

"Swallow it down Clare," says Miss Lucy. "Feel it working its way deep inside you. That's a good girl, keep on swallowing, drink it all down Clare, oh that's so good, isn't it Clare, and again Clare, swallow, keep swallowing."

Miss Lucy's voice is hypnotic, Clare responds automatically, the commands issued by Miss Lucy seem to bypass her brain and travel directly to her muscles and her nervous system. The piss is bitter, but not bitter the way a cooking apple or sour wine is bitter, there is no taste other than bitterness, it is a sort of flat essence of bitterness, both vile and not-vile, her conditioning is telling her one thing, that piss is dirty and unhygienic, that somebody-else's waste fluids should not be taken into your body: but Miss Lucy is telling her otherwise, Miss Lucy is telling her to swallow, and swallow again, and to keep on swallowing. She cannot work out these mixed messages, there is no pause or let up, the steaming bitter yellow piss is flowing into her mouth and the only way to remove it is by swallowing.

At last the stream dwindles to a trickle, and subsides.

"That's a good girl Clare," says Miss Lucy. "Now lick up the drops."

Clare's tongue laps at the drops of piss around Miss Lucy's labia. Miss Lucy produces a final squirt into Clare's mouth, then sighs and lowers herself back onto Clare's stomach.

"Now isn't that the most intimate thing in the world?" she asks Clare. "To take another girl's golden juice deep into your own body. Some people would pay a fortune for that privilege Clare, and you've had it free, as a gift. My gift to you Clare, for giving me such a wonderful orgasm."

Clare's mouth is still open: she can almost visualise the hot yellow piss inside her, infiltrating and spreading inside her, as on an anatomical map showing veins and arteries in colours. When she breathes out she can smell it on her breath. She feels as though it has infiltrated her in some permanent way, and that on some cellular level it will always be a part of her: she will never be able to expunge it.

"Time waits for no one Clare," says Miss Lucy.

Clare finds her feet are being unfastened. Miss Lucy is pulling on her knickers, and guiding her breasts into the cups of her bra.

"But think, Clare," she says, as she wriggles back into her white uniform dress, the same dress that Clare has washed and ironed in the Laundry. "You'll never forget today. Long after you've left Hazely you'll remember what I've done for you today."

Clare is aware of Miss Lucy's words, but they are unfolding in the background of her consciousness. Dominating her awareness, as she steps mechanically into her knickers and fastens her grey reformatory skirt, is the sensation of piss: piss in her mouth, piss in her chest, piss in her passages and airways, and piss in her stomach.

Miss Lucy has spent far longer than usual with Clare: but she has had one ear open for the opening and closing of the door across the corridor, the door that leads to Matron's Consulting Room. And when she ushers Clare back into the Waiting Room she finds she has timed things to perfection.

For the next girl in the queue is Karen Frayn. Karen takes one look at the expression on Clare's face, and any hope she had that the Wardens might have intervened dies. She trudges resentfully after Miss Lucy into the Consulting Room, wondering what twisted new ordeal lies in store for her.

But Miss Lucy seems distracted, and she shaves Karen in a cursory way without saying a word. In fact Miss Lucy is still in something of a post-coital daze, and would happily forego the shaving of Karen Frayn and all the remaining girls - except that she has business to transact with Karen Frayn. It is only when the shaving is complete and she has begun to oil Karen's private parts that she gathers her forces together.

"So, Karen," she begins: "I've been thinking about that offer you made the other week, and I've decided to accept."

"What offer?" asks Karen Frayn.

"The four thousand pounds of course," says Miss Lucy. "You can't have forgotten? The money you offered me for another rub."

"I've changed my mind," says Karen, who after her enema and plucking has determined that Miss Lucy will never get another penny out of her. "I don't want another rub."

"Then why did you offer?" asks Miss Lucy.

Karen falters a little: "I... that was before you gave me an enema."

"You offered because you wanted to get out of having an enema didn't you Karen?" says Miss Lucy. "Only, it didn't help you did it? But things have moved on, Karen. "You may not want another rub - that's your choice, though if I were to play with you down there I could have you begging me for relief within a few minutes. But an offer is an offer Karen."

Aware of just how vulnerable she is, Karen says:

"So what am I supposed to be getting for my money?"

"Call it protection money Karen. A little something to persuade me not to pluck you and give you another enema."

Something her father once said to her, never pay blackmailers they always come back for more, comes into Karen's mind. But then Karen's father was never in prison, and never had his legs strapped open with somebody threatening to give him an enema and pluck his balls. She thinks quickly: there is another month to go before she can write another letter: that will give her some breathing space, a chance to find a way out of this nightmare.

"All right," she tells Miss Lucy. "I'll do what you ask."

"Sensible girl," says Miss Lucy.

Miss Lucy goes to her bag, which she has hung up on the back of the door, and takes out the sheet of writing paper and the envelope she has brought with her.

"Here we are Karen: no need to wait, you can write here and now."

Karen's face falls as though all the muscles have been injected with muscle relaxant. Miss Lucy laughs.

"Surprised, Karen?" she says. She raises the back of the examination couch until Karen is half-sitting, forming a 'V' shape with her legs still bent and her feet still in the stirrups. When Karen has adjusted to her new position Miss Lucy hands her her clipboard.

"I can't," Karen says, the colour draining from her face. "My father will never pay again."

"But your car, Karen," says Miss Lucy. "Your wonderful new Porsche that you drove into that poor pedestrian. You were going to ask him to sell it, remember?"

"It was damaged," says Karen: "It isn't worth anything."

"Karen," says Miss Lucy, her tone suddenly much more severe. "I'm sick of these games. You see that enema bag up there? Well either you write this letter or I'm going to fill that enema bag full to the brim and then I am going to fill up your bowels until you look as though you're six months pregnant. Do you understand me?"

"Oh God," says Karen, as Miss Lucy places the pen in her hand.

"Write a few daughterly words to your precious Daddy," says Miss Lucy. "Then I'll tell you what to write."

Karen knows when she is beaten:

"All right," she says. "But how do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't," says Miss Lucy. "Though I kept my promise last time, if you remember. But if it helps you Karen, frankly I'm sick of the sight of your stuck-up twat: whenever I see it I just want to stick my fist up it. So once the money has been received I'll make sure it's my Aunt who shaves you. Now write."

So Karen writes; then Miss Lucy dictates:

"'A friend in here has been so kind to me. She is doing everything she can to make my life bearable. But everything has to be paid for, and five thousand pounds does not go very far. Please can you take another four thousand to the same address, and sell my Porsche to cover it. This will be the last time I ask for money, I promise you.'"

"Now the envelope," says Miss Lucy. "And don't try sending it to a false address, I know where your family live."

When Karen has finished Miss Lucy lowers the back of the couch and un-straps her feet. Seething but powerless Karen dresses. Miss Lucy takes the letter over to her bag: but before she places it inside she raises it to her lips and kisses it.

The rest of the girls pass in a blur. Miss Lucy has neither desire nor inclination to tease or pleasure or punish any of them. She wants only to get back to her room, take a long cold drink of something refreshing, stretch out on her bed and savour the afternoon's pleasures. She purposefully avoids Donna May, which saves her the effort of conversation. But she cannot resist a final piece of mischief when Kelly Watson has her feet strapped into the stirrups.

"Look at these labia Kelly," she says, as she is oiling Kelly after her shave. Kelly's labia are loose and hang just below her vagina like two wrinkled earlobes. "How the blood flows into them."

She takes one of Kelly's lips between her finger and thumb and gives a slight downwards tug. Kelly wriggles uncertainly. Miss Lucy takes the other in her other hand and does the same. Then she begins to tug on them alternately: the action is that of a milkmaid tugging on udders.

"It's like milking a cow, Kelly," says Miss Lucy. "Like milking a great fat heifer."

She continues to 'milk' Kelly's labia, watching the struggle on Kelly's face: Kelly knows she is being insulted: she knows what Miss Lucy is like: yet the feel of her fingers is irresistible, the blood is coursing into her labia, making her wet despite herself.

Then abruptly Miss Lucy stops.

"Have you had the urge to scratch an itch lately?" she asks Kelly. She watches Kelly's face, as the fat girl grimaces at the cessation of the fingering of her labia. A frown comes over it. Then her jaw drops open:

"You?" she asks.

"Whatever can you mean Kelly?" says Miss Lucy. "All I asked was if you'd had the urge to scratch an itch."

"It was you wasn't it?" says Kelly fiercely. "I wondered if it was the oil. You - you got me caned."

"And what a fine sight it was, Kelly," says Miss Lucy. "I can't think when I've enjoyed my dinner more. Off you go now Kelly, Miss Bulstrode will be waiting."

Miss Lucy shepherds the almost speechless Kelly back into the Waiting Room. Then, seeing all the girls present, she turns and enters Matron's Consulting Room with her clipboard.

Once she has heard the door across the corridor open and close, Miss McCloud steps out of the lavatory cubicle, adjoining Miss Lucy's Consulting Room, where she has spent the afternoon watching and listening.